All My Darkest Mornings
by Penbrydd
Summary: Spock, Kirk, and McCoy have been friends for a dozen years, and they're just friends -- sometimes with very limited benefits. Until one night that damages Kirk's reality so severely, he's not sure how to look at Spock, any more.
1. Chapter 1

**Characters:** Spock, Kirk, Bones  
**Rating:** PG, now. NC-17, later.  
**Warnings:** FLUFF. *irked*  
**Notes:** This is fluffy. It may not be fluffy, yet, but it's going there. It's going there in like a weepy goddamn chick-flick way. It's all the things I hate about bad slashfic and weepy ukes, but ... like ... less full of sucking. Or something. I dedicate this one to Twig and Molochai -- one day, we three will take the world by storm, you guys.

* * *

"In the light of all my darkest mornings  
Things fall into place  
And all the soft orange coloured dawnings  
Fall into place"  
-- Jesus and Mary Chain, 'Cherry Came Too'

They'd been friends a long time -- since shortly after the shenanigans on Delta Vega, in fact. But Kirk had forgiven Spock that, and Spock had forgiven Kirk for shattering the last of his control. A decade of friendship tended to dull the edges of old wounds, and sometimes the scars healed together, in a nasty keloided mess, and it was by those matching disfigurements, however metaphorical they might be, that one could know the unspoken depths of that friendship.

It would, indubitably, be wholly unfair to leave out the third of three, but there were some things that Dr. McCoy had expressed a strong disinterest in ever hearing the details of, and his dearest friends were ... usually kind enough to leave him out of the loop. Usually. Most of the time. Almost always. And when they weren't, he would find ways to have his revenge, as he always did -- in those not so subtle commentaries that went over the heads of most, but not all, of the crew.

"You, your girlfriend, and me," McCoy liked to joke, and neither Kirk nor Spock ever particularly wanted to know which of them was the girlfriend, but each secretly thought it would be the other -- not that they were dating. That was a wholly distressing thought.

They'd gotten older, as time went by, but age only seemed to come into play when experiences from years gone by became solutions to new problems -- and Spock, of course, had mellowed with the passage of time, as had Kirk, though he'd never confess to it. It was McCoy who was grumpy and unchanging. Mostly. Almost always.

"Aww. You two are just precious." McCoy's voice dripped with what might've been caustic intent, in years past, but was now mostly reflexive irritation.

Spock had been standing behind the captain, Kirk sitting with his head tipped back, as they shared a lazy kiss. As Bones spoke, Spock pulled back and raised an eyebrow, and Kirk leaned forward, grinning.

"Damn right we are. No other way for the likes of us, eh, Doc?"

Spock looked faintly uncomfortable, as he always did when Jim and Bones started down this line of conversation. He enjoyed kisses -- that was hardly news to anyone -- but he didn't like to think about how he must look performing or receiving them. Even after all these years, semi-public displays of affection were not entirely easy for him -- but sometimes, late at night, when they were all less than wholly sober, Jim's easy acceptance was irresistable to him.

McCoy heaved himself to his feet. "I see that I'm best to leave you two to your shenanigans, for the evening. Don't take pictures. I don't want to see them."

"Aw, but why not? We're so pretty! You could hang us on your wall!" Jim teased.

"If I hang you on my wall, Jim, it's not going to be in effigy." Bones looked that low level of amusedly annoyed that had summed up his entire relationship with Jim and Spock for the last decade and change. "And it'll be by your neck if you don't shut up."

Kirk opened his mouth again, but Spock's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Good night, Doctor. Sleep well," the Vulcan offered, evenly.

"Yeah, we'll see you in the morning. I might be lying about the morning part of that, though." Jim grinned recklessly, and McCoy left, after a sympathetic look from Spock.

"To bed?" Jim asked, when the door had closed.

"That had been my intent," Spock replied.

"Seriously, I don't know that I'm so keen on taking drunken advantage of you," Jim confessed.

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "You asked my permission when I was still sober. I advised you to wait until I was intoxicated."

"You make an excellent point. I take you at your word."


	2. Chapter 2

**Characters:** Spock, Kirk  
**Rating:** PG, now. NC-17, later.  
**Warnings:** FLUFF. *irked*  
**Notes:** Penbrydd will now politely request not to be hung from the wall by his neck for this chapter and the ones that follow. There's a story, here, and it may not be the one you think I'm telling. Shit, I don't even know if I'm going to be able to finish this, but for you guys, I'll try.

* * *

"Should time allow us to describe our prowess  
it would be quite hard to overrate,  
for we are the king of the boudoir old thing and the king doesn't like to wait."  
-- The Magnetic Fields, 'We Are the King of the Boudoir'

They sat on opposite sides of the captain's regulation bed, not really looking at each other. Jim dropped his boots onto exactly the tray of paints he'd been trying not to hit, and he flinched a bit at the sound of metal rattling. He was sure this was the part where he was supposed to say something cryptic, and then pass out, before this could get any weirder, but Spock had offered to sleep with him, for his birthday -- probably some logical exploration of human sexual desires. They'd done something of this sort once before -- but only once -- when they'd both lost everything they knew. That had been fast, rough, and dirty, and neither of them spoke of it, again -- especially not after Uhura took offence, and left Spock over it. That hadn't been cool, at all. He didn't mean to interfere _like that_.

Spock stood and set his boots beside the door. "I apologise. I neglected to wear socks, today. I am... that is, my feet..."

Jim laughed and patted the bed, examining a number of glass jars that sat on a shelf beside his bed, before finally selecting one. "I can work with that. You forget how many years I spent sleeping in my boots."

Folding himself onto the bed, sitting and self-contained, Spock looked nervous in that way that only a Vulcan can. With a cocky smile, Jim opened the jar he held, with one hand, and grabbed Spock's ankle, with the other, fluidly unfolding the Vulcan straight onto his back. Spock looked mildly alarmed, but Jim had never hurt him without an extremely good reason. His eyes got wide as Jim's fingers dipped into the jar, coming out with a strongly cinnamon-scented cream that he rubbed into Spock's foot.

"Jim, what are you doing? That's entirely unsanitary and relatively disgusting."

"Is that an actual objection?" Jim asked, his hands pausing, thumbs in a pair of pressure points. "Or are you concerned about my comfort, instead of your own?"

"Captain -- Jim, I would be remiss if I did not put your comfort first," Spock protested, unthinkingly pressing his foot against Jim's thumbs. "But if this does not trouble you, please continue. I have never -- No one has ever done this, before."

Jim's hands caressed Spock's foot, learning the small eccentricities of his anatomy. "Are you serious? No one has ever touched your feet? They're idiots. What kind of girls do you take to bed, Spock? I always start at the feet. It sets the pace."

"If this is just the beginning, I do not know if I will make it through the end. I have been awake for quite some time." Spock groaned softly, as Jim's fingers rubbed the tendons of his heel. "I want to, but I make no promises."

"Promise me nothing," Jim stated, flippantly, hands moving to massage Spock's lower leg. "My gift will be to watch you enjoy what I can do for you. And I'm not bragging. I'm already watching, and you're already enjoying."

Spock moaned wantonly, gasping as Jim's fingers lingered on what should have been the most painful parts of his legs, with delicious pressure that lit up the nerves straight up to his spine. He spoke, as Jim's hands paused, questioningly. "You're not hurting me. I don't know how, but you'd know for certain if you were. This always hurts. I never let anyone touch me like this."

"I'm good at what I do, Spock. And I've had enough practical xenobiology over the years to make quick adaptations to the unexpected." Jim lifted Spock's ankle, pressing a kiss to the bone, before he began again, with the other foot. "This is what made me famous, before I was captain."

As Jim's fingers pressed into Spock's foot and ankle, the Vulcan relaxed, nearly melting into the bed with pleasure. His eyes relaxed, as well, pupils expanding until his eyes seemed black pools. Jim merely smiled, following his fingers with his lips, laying kisses along the pressure points he stirred. He listened to Spock's breathing deepen and quicken, watching his friend's responses, to ensure he would notice if he began to cause pain.

After many lengthy and delicious moments of silence, Spock struggled to sit up, and Jim let go, immediately. Jim's mouth opened, to apologise, but Spock shook his head.

"I need a drink. Nothing about you." Spock leaned forward and claimed the glass sitting in the shelf at the foot of the bed, taking a long drink, as Jim shifted, moving behind him, to trace the lines of his back.

"You'll tell me if I hurt you?" Jim verified.

"I don't think you'll need me to tell you," Spock offered, lightly, putting the glass back on the shelf.

"Elbow to the face. Right. Got it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Characters:** Spock, Kirk  
**Rating:** PG, now. NC-17, later.  
**Warnings:** FLUFF. *irked*  
**Notes:** Angsty Spock is angsty. Or some shit. He's about as angsty as a Vulcan's going to get. And modest. And derangingly uncertain about Jim's intentions and actions. I'm trying not to let the next story in the sequence interrupt this one.

* * *

"And that beauty spilled out across the high way  
Like a glittering trail of venom and diamonds"  
-- Chemlab, 'Electric Molecular'

"Two pressure points," Jim explained, thumbs pressing into Spock's back. "I can't reach the third, from here, because you're sitting on it, and that might be a good thing. It makes these two that much more interesting."

"Third? Just be careful with my back, please. I don't allow this sort of thing." Spock sounded less concerned than the words should have been, as he pulled off his shirt, without disrupting the rhythm of Jim's hands.

"I'm not going to break anything. Chill out." Jim's fingers traced the line of Spock's spine, pressing into the points he knew would release some of the more obvious tension -- not that there was obvious tension, in a human sense, anywhere in Spock's body. It was an odd baseline to adjust to, but Jim knew his friend well enough to understand what he had under his hands. Spock's movements were miniscule, and his tension tightly compressed and efficiently worn. Jim wondered if being a Betazoid would make it easier, but he didn't need to be an empath or a telepath to read Spock -- sufficient interaction had opened his Vulcan friend to him like a book.

Some time after Jim had stopped thinking and let his fingers do their work, he slid his hands around to Spock's chest, pulling his friend back against him, breathing in the scent of Spock's neck, pressing a kiss to the junction of neck and shoulder. _Mine_, he wanted to say, but Spock wouldn't take it the way he meant it. It wasn't so much ownership, as it was an almost tribal claim -- a promise to cherish and protect, to defend and encourage. Not 'my mate', but 'my family'.

He'd left Spock's personal life alone, for much of their friendship -- the Vulcan didn't want to talk about those things, and for all that Jim sucked at following the rules, he knew which ones needed to be kept. Learning, this way, that Spock had been not just unappreciated, but hurt by the women he chose seriously pissed him off. After Spock was asleep, he intended to shut himself in the bathroom and invent new languages in which to shout expletives, because there weren't enough in the languages he knew. Although, upon reflection, Klingon might not be a bad place to start.

Jim returned to the moment as Spock's hand settled onto his own. "I have never felt so comfortable, as I do with you. I have never felt so safe."

Jim choked up for a moment, but covered it with another chaste kiss, as he pulled Spock tighter against him. "Yeah, I have that effect on people. May I never do you wrong."

Spock relaxed against Jim's chest, into his arms, and Jim's fingers idly ruffled his chest hair. This was acceptable. This was cotentment -- plain and unexciting, simple and warm. However, it was likely to go awry, in this position. Spock was bent in a way that Jim knew was putting weight on his lower back, instead of his hips.

"I should move, and you should stretch out. You're going to fuck up your back, if we stay like this, and I just _fixed _your back." Jim patted Spock's arm.

"My back doesn't hurt," Spock protested.

"Yet," Jim pointed out. "Seriously. I don't want to hurt you, and I don't want to watch you hurt yourself on me, because you're too damn stubborn."

Jim moved aside, pulling off his shirt and dropping it on the floor, and Spock stood to stretch, sulkily -- or at least as sulkily as a Vulcan would allow. Jim knew what it was; he'd seen it a hundred times before. He shook his head and smiled, standing to unbutton his own pants.

"Look, I hope you don't mind if I take my pants off. My pockets are full, and my hands are covered in massage cream. I don't really feel the need to make more of a mess than is strictly necessary." Jim's back was to Spock, and he glanced over his shoulder to catch the response.

"Terribly logical of you. I am trying to work myself up to join you, but I do not wear underclothing, and the situation is... unusual," Spock replied, hands resting at the closure of his own pants.

"Hey, you don't have to, you know." Jim sat down, kicking his pants into the laundry pile, at the corner of the room. "I really don't care what you choose to keep wearing. Don't make yourself uncomfortable on my account. I'd be --"

Jim stopped talking when he heard Spock's pants hit the floor, behind him -- the thump was likely the communicator that was perpetually in his pocket. Reaching behind himself, Jim lifted the far side of the blankets, holding them like a barrier to his vision, and an invitation for Spock to settle under them. He stared into a corner of the ceiling, until he felt Spock stretch out, and then he laid the blanket across his friend, before he let his eyes come back down.

"Why in the fuck are you so beautiful?" Jim cursed his mouth, silently, as soon as the words were out of it. Sometimes, he spoke without thinking, and the words that came out were always true, but rarely acceptable. In this case, to his horror, he couldn't seem to stop talking. "It's true. Your ears --" he traced one with a fingertip, and Spock tensed, but not in anything like irritation "-- these lips --" again, he enhanced the point with his fingertip "-- you're fucking astonishing."

"Thank you," was the only response, as Spock gazed up, in amazement.


	4. Chapter 4

**Characters:** Spock, Kirk  
**Rating:** PG-13, now. NC-17, later.  
**Warnings:** ...Angst!?  
**Notes:** Jim confuses himself. And me. A lot. What the fuck, brain? This gets deeply confusing and really bizarre, and again, I warn that I am not telling the story you expect to hear.

* * *

"Delicate love, precious and pale  
Tempted and torn  
Broken and failed"  
-- Econoline Crush, 'The Devil You Know'

"Don't thank me for stating facts, Spock," Jim said, leaning in to plant a light kiss on Spock's forehead. "It's illogical."

Spock's eyebrow arced up, and he poked Jim firmly in the shoulder. "I believe the correct response to that is 'fuck you', Jim. I will not stop thanking you; you are being exceptionally kind to me. It is ... unusual."

Thumb caressing Spock's cheek, Jim leaned down again, this time to steal a kiss from Spock's lips. He grunted in pleasurable surprise as Spock's relatively short nails scraped down his back, over the Federation standard black undershirt. One of them needed to be wearing something, still, he knew, and since Spock did not wear underclothing, as he had mentioned, it was up to Jim to maintain that balance. That was acceptable. For once, he didn't really want to look at his own scars, and he really didn't want Spock looking -- there were too many memories under that shirt.

_Years, I have waited to do this_, he thought, _and now that I have you as I have always wanted you, I'm afraid to touch you, too much. I'm afraid I'll change your mind with my hands. I'm terrified that I'm not clean enough. I'm afraid that I'm not worthy of your acceptance. I'm afraid I'll dirty you. I'm afraid I'll ruin everything we've shared._

And then Spock's hands were on him again, pulling him all the way down for a heatedly passionate kiss. Jim wanted this. He wanted it so very badly, and it felt so wrong. He was not Spock's lover. They were friends -- friends who kissed, when no one unimportant was looking. He wanted it to be more, but that wasn't what this was. This was just a game. Just a gift. Something that would never repeat. And as he let the passion take him, let his hands play across Spock's bare chest, carefully down to cup a hip in his palm, he could feel himself coming apart, almost physically -- with every touch, another few square inches of his body went numb, as though they'd floated away, in chunks. This, then, was what it felt like to break one's own heart, slowly and deliberately, in the arms of one's greatest desire.

"You," Jim whispered into Spock's ear. "I lust for you."

"I was afraid, for a moment, that you would say something else. Something we might both regret." Spock commented dryly, hands caressing Jim's body, over the undergarments he still wore.

"I do love you, Spock. Just not, you know, like that," Jim lied, easily, and the backs of his hands went numb. When had this happened? He'd never let himself look too closely at his feelings for Spock -- writing them off as a lust for the unobtainable. And even now, he couldn't swear that wasn't the truth. He was Jim fucking Kirk, and he threw his heart into everything he did. It was part of what had made him not only a good captain, but a great man.

He tried to turn off the rational threads in his mind, and just let his hands and his lips wander, taking in the perfection of Spock. Some things, he knew, should have been turn-offs -- should have stopped his ability to desire, as suddenly and solidly as a parking brake -- but, on Spock, these were just simple parts of the man. He despised chest hair -- this, he knew intellectually, as he buried his face in Spock's, rubbing his cheek against the man's softly furred chest. It didn't matter in the least. His lips tightened against unwanted confessions of the madness that ran through the back of his mind, and he moved down, pressing a heartfelt kiss to Spock's hip, as yet another piece of skin went dull. He wondered if the parts he couldn't feel couldn't be felt, either. Vulcans were, after all, touch telepaths, to some degree. He also wondered if that wasn't part of why he still wore some clothing, but that thought was unsettling -- betrayed a distrust he hadn't known he felt. He pushed the thought from his mind, roughly, and dragged himself back up the bed, to press another kiss to Spock's lips -- a kiss eagerly accepted.

And Jim was more than happy to stay there, hands and lips engaged with Spock's body, his dear friend's hands full of Jim's body, lips gently but tightly fixed to his own. It was an incredible pleasure, uneventful and simple, but intoxicating in its purity. Spock had been so open with him, was still so open to him, but not open enough. He just wanted to be able to stop lying, and not risk losing everything. But, at the same time, he still wasn't certain that he was lying. It was all so sudden, and while he wasn't that drunk, he'd been awake enough hours that his mind might well be confusing the lust and the deep friendship into something it wasn't, and that was most definitely not something to lose one of his two best friends over.


End file.
